


slowed down

by anarchetypal



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Fake AH Crew, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Shotgunning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-09 20:49:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3263909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anarchetypal/pseuds/anarchetypal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Ray, what the fuck, did you and Ryan hotbox my closet?" comes Geoff's voice, and then, so loudly Ray has to jerk the phone away from his ear, "RAY, WHAT THE <i>FUCK</i>, DID YOU AND RYAN SCREW IN MY CLOSET."</p><p>"Ryan's idea," Ray says promptly, cheerfully, and hangs up while Geoff's mid-shout.</p>
            </blockquote>





	slowed down

After the heist, they're split up in pairs: Geoff and Jack are tying up loose ends, Michael and Gavin are laying low at a little safe house at the edge of the city until the heat's off their asses, and Ray and Ryan are back at Geoff's penthouse, waiting.

Ray knows Ryan hates that, sitting around waiting for everything to get wrapped up, knows he hates it even more this time since they'd been at the very edge of the action during the heist. Ryan heads up to the roof the second they get to Geoff's place, all restless energy, and Ray finds something to entertain himself with.

When his phone rings, he's expecting it to be Geoff, but it's Ryan's icon on his screen, a slightly blurry picture Ray managed to take of Ryan laughing at something Geoff had been saying—it's his genuine smile, the one that softens his whole face.

Ray cradles the phone against his ear. "What's up?"

"Did you leave?"

"No?"

There's a pause. "Where are you?"

Ray grins. "I will neither confirm nor deny that I'm currently hotboxing one of Geoff's closets."

There's another moment of silence. Ray distantly hears one of the doors across the penthouse open and shut in a way that almost seems hesitant.

He settles back amidst the hanging coats. "Okay, shit, let's play Hot and Cold," he says, laughing. "You are. Cold. _So_ cold. Strap on your snow boots, dude." The very, very tiny not-stoned part of his brain is sending off little alarm signals saying, _You are too high to be doing this, and also you're giggling like a fourteen year old to Ryan Haywood over the phone, you should probably try to get a hold of yourself while you still have the chance_.

Ryan sighs deeply; the speakers crackle a little. "This is stupid."

"One, I am wounded that you're insulting the integrity of Hot and Cold—"

"The integrity. Of Hot and Cold."

"And _two_ ," Ray continues, which is when the closet door swings open. He squints against the light. "Oh. Okay, you're hot. That was fast."

"I could hear you laughing from across the apartment."

"Self-sabotage. Damn." Ray hangs up his phone. "Hey, close the door. You're gonna let all the smoke out."

Ryan looks a little exasperated. He glances behind him, back at Ray, and then hesitates before sighing and stepping into the closet, pulling the door shut behind him.

It goes dark again, the only light coming from the cracks in the door Ray couldn't push a towel in front of, and the screen of his DS, set off to the side. His eyes readjust, and he can see Ryan standing awkwardly in front of the door. He has to crane his neck to see Ryan's face. The small closet suddenly feels a lot smaller.

"You can sit down," Ray offers graciously, in a general tone of _welcome to my humble abode_.

Ryan snorts. "On the floor?"

"Like a fucking caveman," Ray agrees. He hauled pillows and blankets in from around the penthouse, though, and lined the floor with them, so it's not like he's sitting on a bed of nails.

Ryan is shifting slightly from foot to foot. Eventually, he sighs—he's been doing that a lot since joining the crew full-time, Ray's noticed, like they're totally unbearable or something—and settles down on the floor of the closet cross-legged.

" _Yes_ ," Ray crows triumphantly. "Sink down to my level." He shifts to make the best of the little amount of space they have, which means he ends up with his feet precisely in Ryan's lap.

Ryan gives Ray's socked feet an eyebrow raise, but doesn't push them away, and that's kind of nice. "Geoff's going to be pissed."

"Probably." Geoff's coats are probably absorbing half the smoke, are gonna smell like pot until they're washed or aired out. Ray's honestly too high to care much right now. Ryan's humoring him, and that's great, because he doesn't always—he meets Ray's requests and questions and actions with flat rejection as often as with quiet, acquiescing amusement. And so Ray's learned how to read Ryan and make the most of the days where he's feeling charitable enough to do things like sit with Ray on the floor of a tiny, hotboxed closet.

Which, actually, is not as smoked up as it could be. Ryan let a bunch of fresh air in when he opened the door, and that had taken a decent number of slow, deep hits.

So Ray's not totally off his head, but he's feeling loose and lazy and talkative, and he wants to get the smoke in the closet back up to inner city smog levels. He feels along the floor around him and nearly knocks the bong over when his hand collides with it. "Lighter," he murmurs, and he's not really sure if he's asking Ryan to find it for him, or reminding himself what he's looking for, or calling for the inanimate object in a _here, kitty kitty_ sort of way.

In contrast to the hot, almost stifling air of the room, the cool metal of the lighter Ryan presses into Ray's hand is like a jolt of ice. It's a Zippo, heavy and squarish, and Ray feels an engraving on one side when he thumbs it, but it's too dark to bother trying to make out what it is. His fingers fumble with the top, and when he flicks the wheel, the flame illuminates the closet. "This yours, or did you jack it off a dead body?" Ray's breath agitates the flame and throws dancing, flickering shadows over everything.

Ryan smiles, the sharp one. "If I did take it off a body, it's still mine."

"Finders keepers, losers—"

"Bleeders?"

"Doesn't have the same ring to it."

"More accurate, though."

"I like it. The lighter. It's nice." He uses the flame to check the bowl, and it's not cashed yet, which is a plus. "How pissed would you be if I stole it?"

"Reasonably."

"Reasonably like you won't talk to me for three days, or reasonably like you'll cut off my pinkie fingers while I sleep?" Ray straightens up a little, goes to fit his mouth over the top of the chamber and light the bowl, then remembers his manners and holds out the lighter and the bong. "You wanna," he offers, a question with a flat non-lilt of a statement.

The flame's still lit, so Ray can see the way Ryan regards the bong with a thoughtful frown, like an upper-class suburban mom trying to decide if the new, generic, carefully apolitical piece of artwork is hanging properly in the living room. "It's been a while," Ryan says finally, not reaching for the bong but not leaning away from it, either.

"A while," Ray echoes.

"Ten years, give or take."

"You're old."

"Treat your elders with more respect."

Ray takes his thumb off the wheel of the lighter and lets the flame go out. "I'm imagining college-aged Ryan passing around a joint with his friends."

"Something like that."

Ray tries to picture Ryan that way, young, lounging on a couch in some nameless person's living room, laughing—the good laugh, the one that doesn't make his eyes look harsh. He can barely conjure up the mental image before it dissolves away—he doesn't know what Ryan was like when he was younger, and Ray hasn't asked, because Ryan doesn't respond well to prying. Prying makes him close off (to Ray) or give blatantly sarcastic answers (to Gavin).

Ryan offers information in the moments Ray's least expecting it: in the heat of a heist, sitting in a car in the middle of the night, on a rooftop on a Wednesday afternoon, on Geoff's couch during a Mario Kart tournament.

So Ray knows things, disjointed, random things, like Ryan wants a dog, and he's got a penchant for Bethesda games, and he's allergic to raspberries but doesn't like them much, anyway, and it's been about ten years since he's smoked pot.

"Your loss," he says finally, because Ryan's still not reaching to take the bong, so he lights the bowl for himself and takes a long hit. He can feel Ryan looking at him, so he glances up, still inhaling, and crosses his eyes at him.

"Careful they don't get stuck that way."

Ray snaps the lighter shut, pulls out the slide, and clears the chamber, holding the smoke in his lungs for a long few seconds. Then he lets it out in a wavering stream towards Ryan's face in lieu of an actual response.

Instead of turning his face away or waving at the smoke, Ryan breathes in slow, deep, and grins a little.

And the closet is small and hot and absolutely full of smoke, so it wouldn't take long for Ryan to start feeling something just from that, but Ray's not always patient.

Ryan finally reaches out, and Ray watches with a shameless sort of curiosity as he grabs the neck with one hand and lights the bowl with the other, mirroring Ray's movements from before—monkey see, monkey do, monkey get stoned as fuck. Ryan doesn't hesitate, but he was definitely a joint smoker way back when, Ray thinks, because there's that distinct lack of like-riding-a-bicycle familiar ease in the movement of his fingers, and his eyelashes flutter a little at the burbling sound from deep in the bong once he starts to inhale.

But he follows through, breathes in and in and in, and Ray's a little impressed with the lung capacity he's showing. He can't help it; he watches how Ryan's mouth fits over the top, how his fingers skim the neck a little, and Ray's never wanted to be an inanimate object so badly before.

Ryan hands the bong back when he's done, holding the smoke in, throat working a little in a telltale effort not to cough. When he lets it out, he turns his head like a gentleman and the smoke clouds out from his mouth, hazes the closet up even more.

Ray wants to wreck him so hard.

He moves in by degrees, closer and closer until Ryan takes the hint and spreads his legs. Ray settles in the space there, and soon there's the _shk_ of the Zippo again, and light casting flickering shadows across the hanging coats and their bodies as Ray goes to toke again. He goes through the motions without taking his eyes off Ryan, and once his lungs are full, he tips his head up.

"Open," he says, like a suggestion, like a petulant order, and some of the smoke drifts out and up towards the ceiling.

Ryan raises an eyebrow. "If you wanted to kiss," he starts, but doesn't get any farther than that, because Ray presses in the second Ryan starts speaking, and he slots their mouths together and uses the proximity to blow smoke down Ryan's throat.

Ryan makes a soft, curious noise that goes straight to Ray's cock. Thin wisps of smoke trail from their lips and disappear into the heat of the closet.

He breaks away to breathe, reluctant, and takes a moment to look Ryan over. And he looks good—eyes half-lidded, legs spread, mouth open, hair a little mussed, just a little slower and muted all over. Maybe that's why Ryan hasn't smoked in so long, wants to stay sharp, always alert.

It's a shame.

He's rubbing one of the blankets between his thumb and forefinger, the other hand skimming a section of skin at his ankle where his jeans are rucked up, all absent-minded motions—and that's surprising, that Ryan's tactile when he's high.

Not that Ray blames him. Ray's skin buzzes with it usually, all electric and sensitive, and everything just feels _different_ and _more_.

They go at it a few more times, taking hits alternatively and passing the smoke along between them—Ray savors the way it feels coming from Ryan’s mouth, cooler and thinner and highlighted with the taste of Ryan’s mouth, the slide of his lips and tongue, and soon it’s not about getting high, if it ever was, just about the sensations, the shotgunning a halfhearted excuse for kissing the way teenagers do with no real end goal in mind.

By the time the bowl's cashed, they're both breathing hard, and Ray doesn't have the patience to bother repacking.

Ryan seems to feel the same way. He sets the bong to the side and puts his hands on Ray's waist, fingers digging in a little. Ray shifts, ducks down so he can kiss open-mouthed from the underside of Ryan's jaw down his neck. He nips at the skin, once, gently, and when that coaxes a sound from Ryan, he does it again, harder, until he's sucking and biting and leaving a trail of faint red marks that'll darken within the hour—moving quick, because Ryan never lets him do this for very long.

And there it is, Ryan's hands tightening and then traveling up abruptly to fist in his hair, to drag his head back so sharply Ray nearly chokes with it. "Easy," he says, conversational tone marred by the rasp of his voice and the way it comes off as more of a warning than anything else.

Ray grins, straining against Ryan's hold until he lets go. "Too late. Hickey central up in here."

"I noticed. Getting possessive?"

Ray thumbs a couple of the marks. "Possessive," he echoes, laughing at the thought, because nobody owns Ryan Haywood. "Fuck, yeah. I am possessive of _everything_. Whole city's mine. You, too. Mine, the second I saw you. Had to mark my territory somehow; it was either this or piss all over you."

"Sarcasm," Ryan chides, voice relaxed and quiet again. The high drapes a blanket over everything, a damper-pedal on the whole world; it's too easy to let everything drop and default to calm.

But kissing Ryan again, that's easy, too, that's like gravity, natural and effortless to fall.

It's hot, almost stifling in the closet, and Ryan's hair is a little damp with sweat when Ray cups the back of his neck. For a while, it's just kissing, long minutes that pass by in quiet until Ryan's gasping and Ray's worked up a bit from it, hips shifting subtly, unconsciously. He reaches down between their bodies and palms lazily at where the fabric of Ryan's jeans is straining.

"We're not fucking in a closet," Ryan says, but the sternness he probably meant to convey is lost in the hitch in his breath, in the way his hips roll against Ray's hand.

"'Course not," Ray murmurs, fingers working at the button of Ryan's jeans. "Who fucks in a closet. We're not neanderthals."

"Ray."

"I'm just gonna jerk you off a little."

" _Ray_."

"Look, if you toke up with me, you have to get a handjob. That's just how it works. That's tradition."

"Tradition," Ryan echoes dryly. He licks his lips a bit when Ray gets his fly open.

"Of the Ray Narvaez Blazing Society. It's a fucking institution."

"Yeah? An institution of one stoned man masturbating in a closet?"

"Yeah. Means I have lots of handjob practice. Now shut the fuck up; you're ruining the mood."

" _I'm_ ruining the mood?" Ryan starts, incredulous, and then he lets out a breath in a quick rush of air when Ray get his cock out, precome already at the head—always more affected than he lets on.

And it's been too long since they've done this (not _this_ ,specifically, but fooling around in general, though Ray's starting to think they need to do this, specifically, a lot more frequently), busy with jobs and on odd schedules. Ray's screwed other people in the meantime—he and Ryan have never been exclusive, have never really _been_ anything in general, or so he thinks, it's somehow complicated and simple at the same time—but he's missed this, all of it: the way Ryan sounds when he's turned on, the way his body language falls into some unnameable limbo between predatory and needy.

Ray jacks him off slow, teasing, torturous, the way he knows Ryan hates. He watches Ryan's expression get progressively more annoyed, and then when he finally opens his mouth to snap something, Ray leans in and kisses him, swallows first the words and then a startled groan when Ray quickens the pace abruptly.

They shift, Ryan moving to lean back against some of the pillows Ray hauled in earlier, Ray pushing at Ryan's legs with his free hand to get in close, nearly in his lap.

And it's incredible how the high has mellowed Ryan out, how he moves where Ray coaxes him to and rocks up into Ray's hand with a lazy rhythm instead of a fast, take-what-I-need insistence. He lets Ray tease him until he's half writhing, gasping, hands coming down to grab at Ray's arms like he needs to anchor himself.

"Oh, _fuck_ ," he breathes, voice rough and desperate, and Ray needs to get him high like this _all the time_. Ray takes his time, works Ryan over steadily, like he's got all the time in the world, a slow buildup with no sense of urgency that somehow seems to get Ryan hotter than all the times they've ever fucked quick and rough put together. He wants to get his lips around Ryan's dick if he's honest, let Ryan fuck into his mouth with lazy little rolls of his hips, but Ryan looks a few seconds away from losing it and he doesn't want to change things up now.

"Next time," Ray says, entertaining the notion of _next time_ , thoughts running free and shameless, "I'll suck you off."

Ryan's hands dig hard into Ray's arms suddenly, and then he's taking in a sharp, shaky breath and coming over Ray's hand with a full-bodied shudder and a noise that would've gotten Ray half hard if he hadn't been there already.

For a while, there's just the sound of Ryan breathing quick, coming down from it, and when Ray fits himself against Ryan's side, propped up against the wall with the pillows (he wipes his hand clean on one of the coats hanging up, and he'd be more worried about that if he didn't know he'd already be catching hell from Geoff for all this later), Ryan turns and mouths lazily at his neck until Ray's humming with it.

Ray realizes, after a while, that he's pushing his hips against Ryan in a slow rhythm, not quite rutting, and reaches down and presses the heel of his hand between his legs to take the edge off a little.

Things change quick after that.

"Don't," comes Ryan's voice, but Ray's gone, the thick heat and the high and his cock hard in his jeans making him hear but not comprehend.

And suddenly everything's jolting, spinning; Ray's back hits a pile of blankets with a muted noise. He brings his hands down to the floor to orient himself, and Ryan's hovering over him, eyes blown dark with the high but movements surprisingly sober-quick. He gets Ray's wrists together in one hand and presses them up into the blankets above his head, and even now Ray's hips are still rocking, against nothing.

"Dude," he says, trying to convey confusion and annoyance but laughing a little despite himself, too loose to be bothered much. He tugs at the hold Ryan's got on him, more testing it than anything else.

But Ryan uses his free hand to push Ray's thighs apart, and then he's ducking down and kissing him slow, mouth hot and unrelenting until Ray's a little lightheaded, hands twitching to touch, to grab, come on, let me, _let me_.

Ryan gets a hand between his legs, palms at him with not nearly enough force, a tease more than anything. Ray lets out a self-indulgent whine, draws it out and then shifts until he can meet Ryan's hand satisfyingly as he arches up. In response, Ryan pulls away— _no, c'mon_ —and then presses down hard on Ray's hip until he forces himself to still.

"There we go," Ryan murmurs, praise thick in his tone, and Ray feels himself flush down to his shoulders. He takes in a breath, opens his mouth to ask _what the fuck, what the fuck is that about_ , and then the air rushes out in a half-formed swear when Ryan's fingers press against his clothed cock again.

And it's still not enough, but Ryan doesn't seem to be in any hurry to speed up, like he's _playing_ , which should be infuriating but somehow just makes Ray hot all over, quiet, increasingly more desperate noises rising in his throat.

When Ryan finally picks up the pace, Ray's got a thin sheen of sweat over what feels like his entire body. He jolts, swearing, and thrusts his hips up into Ryan's hand before he can think to stop himself—Ryan doesn't pull away this time, thank fuck, but he doesn't let go of Ray's wrists, either, and doesn't touch the fly of his jeans, which—

"Wait," Ray manages, a little strangled, "wait, just let me get my fucking pants off, holy shit—"

"You want me to stop?" Ryan asks, conversational, still fondling him, and Ray whines, starting to shake a little with need.

"Yes— _No_ — God, Ryan, c'mon, just— I'm gonna come in my fucking jeans, man."

"Pity."

" _Asshole_ ," Ray snarls, but it comes out weak and breathy. Ryan's working him over relentlessly, and he's rocking his hips mindlessly to match the rhythm, and he's _close_ , he's so fucking close it _hurts_ —

"Next time," Ryan says, leaning down to kiss him, "I'm going to fuck you." Ray gasps out something nonsensical, shuddering, and Ryan's lips trace his jawline, the length of his neck, speaking low and calm between open-mouthed kisses and harsh drags of teeth. "In a bed, for hours, until your voice gets all wrecked from begging."

Ray chokes out a sob as he comes, hips thrusting involuntarily against Ryan's hand as he rides it out, until he's arching away from Ryan's hand, oversensitive.

Ryan thumbs his lower lip once he's spent, and he opens his mouth automatically, tongue swiping over the pad of Ryan's thumb with a mindless sort of fixation as he catches his breath.

"You good?" Ryan murmurs finally, releasing Ray's wrists and sitting back.

Ray shifts a little, pulling a face. His underwear is clinging uncomfortably to his skin and to his jeans, and every breath he takes in is heavy with smoke and heat. His glasses are fogged.

"I think I'm going to suffocate and die if I stay in here another ten seconds," he announces, voice ragged, struggling to sit up. That's enough to coax a laugh from Ryan, who gets to his feet and then hauls Ray up by the arm. They stumble out of the closet, Ray still a little weak at the knees, and he squints in the light of the hallway as he breathes in fresh, cool air, finally, thank fuck.

Ryan's looking back into the closet, eyebrow raised. "You're going to want to clean that up before Geoff gets back."

Ray's pretty sure a few opened windows and a bottle of Febreze aren't going to clear out the haze of sex and pot. "Totally. Food first, though. I would suck so many dicks for pancakes right now."

Ryan leers at him.

"Not _yours_ , obviously," Ray says, giving Ryan a solid shove down the hallway. "You're gonna be too busy driving us to IHOP to have your dick sucked."

"Do you want to change your pants first?"

"Nah, I thought I'd just sit in my own jizz for the next several hours."

"Hey, whatever gets you going."

"Asshole."

——

Ray's digging into a stack of pancakes, feet in Ryan's lap across the booth (Ryan drives impressively well while high, as it turns out), in a pair of sweats he salvaged from one of the guest rooms, when Geoff calls. He tucks the phone against his ear and shoves a whole quarter of a pancake into his mouth just to watch Ryan make a face. "Yo."

"Got the heist wrapped up," Geoff says, sounding pleased about it—they must have raked in a good take this time. "Where'd you and Ryan go?"

Ray swallows and reaches for the syrup for the fourth time since their food arrived. Ryan pulls it away from him with a frown. "Pancake run."

"Cool. Whenever you guys get back, we'll divvy up the money and check— Jesus _Christ_."

Ray gives an innocent, questioning noise. "Problem, boss?"

"Ray, what the fuck, did you and Ryan hotbox my closet?" comes Geoff's voice, and then, so loudly Ray has to jerk the phone away from his ear, "RAY, WHAT THE _FUCK_ , DID YOU AND RYAN SCREW IN MY CLOSET."

"Ryan's idea," Ray says promptly, cheerfully, and hangs up while Geoff's mid-shout.

"He's not going to believe that," Ryan says, and then he shuts his eyes and sighs deeply when his phone goes off. "You're a bad influence."

Ray grins at him. "Yup. Good thing you like bad boys."

"Eat your pancakes, you fucking stoner."

**Author's Note:**

> If you do the tumblr thing, I've got a writing/inspiration blog where you'll see a bunch of sort-of-fic not substantial enough to cross-post here: http://anarchetypal.tumblr.com/


End file.
